Col and Andri: The Vanna Stallions

Mark of the Hand

Andri stood, back against the tree, facing the four men who clearly threatened him. His mind raced, seeking paths of action. He hoped that Gethen would step in before things turned bad, but he still needed more information from Soli’s friends, especially with his absence. He decided to seem cooperative.

“What does Soli want from me?” he asked. “If it’s reasonable, I will comply.”

“He wants you and Col, Kyan’s son, to break your bonding. If you love him at all, you will set him free.”

“Why would Soli care?” Andri said, but even as he spoke the words, a flash of insight came. “Would it help if I spoke to Soli alone?”

Zoltan, at the fore of the group, hesitated. “He might consider it.”

But the tall, muscular man with them objected. “Just do as we say!” He pushed Andri’s shoulder roughly. Almost immediately, he shouted in shock and held his wrist. “My hand! Beng take you! What did you do to me?”

“What’s wrong, Leandro?” said Zoltan.

“My hand is frozen!” But he raised the club in his other hand.

“Hold!” said Andri. Would you bring more harm on yourself?”

“What curse is this?” Leandro questioned.

“It’s a blessing. A powerful Devlesa protects me. Think thoughts of peace, Leandro, and lay your hand on me again, and it will be cured,” Andri replied with a feeling of certainty.

Fear, anger and need warred on Leandro’s face. Need won out. “You had better be speaking the truth,” he said as he extended the injured hand. He grimaced and then firmly placed his hand on Andri’s shoulder.

A curious expression came over the big man, and his eyes widened in wonder. “It’s warm again, and I feel . . . I feel . . .” He could not finish. He turned to the others. “Try it! But this gadje is right. Don’t think about harm.”

“Have you become dinlo, a crazy fool, Leandro?” said Zoltan, stepping back.

But Bengo and Alif tentatively approached Andri, who stood passively, arms at his sides, projecting not even the slightest threat. He felt a sense of displacement as if he inhabited two worlds, and for a moment, the green glade turned into a meadow of purple grass under a twilight sky. Then a sense of affirmation blossomed within him, and he smiled as his shoulder was touched again.

Bengo and Alif stood back in amazement, and Alif said, “It’s as if a close friend—“

But Zoltan interrupted the moment. “What’s wrong with you three? Let’s seize him and force him to reveal this sorcery.”

“If a spirit protects him, I’ll not mess it with it. We were wrong to try force. Let’s summon Soli tonight, and he and Andri can talk,” said Bengo.

“I am willing to discuss Soli’s concerns,” the young bard said. “But what happened with our stolen horses? Did you or Soli have a hand in it? I am not about to accuse you. I just want to know that our horses are safe.”

“Tell him nothing!” Zoltan shouted.

But Alif bowed his head. “Soli met with a Çerge trader and two strangers. They just asked us to point out the two stallions Col selected. That’s all, I swear. We did not know their purpose.”

Andri felt aghast but tamped down his feelings and changed tack, ‘Before I lose my temper,’ he thought.

“So, send a messenger to me at Phuridai Eleni’s camp to arrange a meeting with Soli. Remember, the Phuridai will detect any deceit or danger from your carrier.”

The men looked suitably impressed, except for Zoltan, who stood scowling.

“Come on, boys, let’s leave,” Leandro said. He looked at Col. “You will have your messenger.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but Alif touched his arm, and he left with the others.

Some moments later, there was a faint rustling in the bushes, and Andri spotted Gethen emerging from cover. The young bard waved him away and put a finger to his lips. Gethen nodded and withdrew. Andri searched the ground and picked up one of the stout sticks that had been dropped. Then he leaned against a tree and waited.

It didn’t take long. Zoltan sauntered into the clearing, an expression of evil intent in his eyes.

“Now it’s just you and me—and I have no intention of touching you.”

As he finished speaking, Zoltan revealed the knife in his hand. He threw it, aiming for Andri’s heart, but the young bard’s training came to the fore, and he reacted instinctively, swiping the knife away with his stick.

Zoltan pulled out another knife and ran toward him. Before he could close, Gethen surged out of the bushes, a stranger at his heel. He did not draw a weapon but attacked Zoltan bare-handed.

Zoltan whirled and threw himself at Gethen. But the young guard evaded his grasp, instead seizing the wrist and arm of Zoltan’s knife hand. He used Zoltan’s momentum to twist the arm behind the Wanderer’s back while tripping him with a leg. The knife went flying, and Andri scooped it up.

The other man ran up to where Gethen pinned his attacker on the ground. He simply picked up another of the heavy sticks and struck Zoltan on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious.

‘Ouch.’ Andri winced, hearing the crack of wood against bone. Then he turned to his rescuer.

“Gethen! Thank the Mother-of-All. When you took him on bare-handed, you scared me!”

“As you pointed out before, we are guests here. It would not do if I went around skewering people who threatened you.” While speaking, Gethen took a cord from his belt, where several were tied, and fastened Zoltan’s wrists and thumbs together.

The binding looked insignificant, but Andri had learned in his training that it was very secure. He sighed in relief.

The Wanderer who had accompanied Gethen checked Zoltan’s pulse and eyes then stood. “He will be fine. Just a sore head for several days,” the man told Gethen. “Things could have turned out a lot worse. I was concerned when your friend waved us back.”

Gethen said, “Andri, meet Amos. He is an Elder’s son and a brave fighter. When you watched the wrestling at your celebration, Amos was the first man Col wrestled.”

“I recall,” said Andri. “You were very fierce,” he said to Amos. “Col loves a good match, and I was excited to see you both fight.”

“This is not how I usually do it,” Amos said, pointing to the heavy stick he had dropped.

“We did what we had to do,” replied Gethen. “Andri, Amos is also a witness.”

“Then you should take these . . .” Andri replied, handing Zoltan’s two throwing knives to the Wanderer. “But can you hold off reporting this matter until I meet with Soli?”

“I can, but eventually, I will have to lay out the case to the Kris, our court that deals with a Wanderer who betrays his oaths and our codes.”

Meanwhile, Gethen had been silent and thoughtful. “Amos, he said, may I see those knives?”

“Certainly.” Amos passed them to Gethen.

“Hmm . . .they do not match. One is, I believe, of Wanderer make, and the other—Andri, where have you seen a blade like this before?”

Andri looked hard at it, noting the wavy pattern on the blade, indicating the steel had been folded many times. Then it dawned on him, and he exclaimed, “The assas—I mean the man that Jorge killed. That man had knives like this!”

Gethen nodded. “It is indeed one of their blades. But how would Zoltan get one, I wonder?”

Andri replied, “Perhaps it was payment for a service rendered.”

“That’s possible,” put in Amos. “It is one of the things we will find out from this one.” He nudged Zoltan with his boot.

Gethen said, “Let’s see if we can revive him. I don’t fancy us having to carry him all the way out.

Amos nodded. “I am with you in that, brother!”

*    *    *

Col and Aled had been moving swiftly, following in Geraint’s horses’ tracks. Coming across a wide but shallow stream, they stopped to water their mounts.

“You look almost as tired as the horses, Geraint,” Aled observed. “We should slow down, or we will be in no condition to fight should we meet enemies.”

Col said, “You two rest while I search for tracks and keep a lookout.”

For once, Geraint had no comment. He lay back on the grass and closed his eyes. Mildly concerned, Aled settled beside him. After a moment’s consideration, his hands moved to Geraint’s breeches, and he unfastened them.

Geraint opened one eye. “Is this a good idea?”

Aled simply bent his head and licked the old Warrior’s cock before taking it in his mouth. He sucked slowly, squeezing Geraint’s hairy balls in one hand while grasping the cock-shaft, which swelled to its massively engorged state.

Geraint placed both hands on Aled’s head, pushing him down on the cock, even as his body rose to meet the guard’s mouth. His hips undulated as he fucked the hot, wet mouth. “Aah!” the old Warrior grunted fiercely as Aled’s tempo increased.

At that moment, Col rode up and beheld them. He did not dismount but stayed and watched the erotic scene unfold, even as he glanced around him to scan for outside threats. His own cock pulsed with the desire to join in and suck both men, but he resisted, conscious of his duty.

Geraint breathed heavily and swore under his breath. Then: “I’m cumming! Ugh . . .”

He bucked and strained his hips as the ejaculation took place, pumping his copious seed into Aled’s mouth.

Aled drank it in, finishing by licking the last drops milked from the now-sensitive head.

Still watching, Col had the urge to masturbate. Instead, he said, “I hope you are rested enough, Geraint. Let’s eat some food, then move out.”

But Aled reached over to Geraint, who had pulled himself to a seated position, and kissed him.

“Thank you for that, my friend,” the old Warrior said and smiled. “I can think clearly again. And Col: you’ll get your turn later.”

*    *    *

As the day passed, their vigilance increased. Col found more tracks, and Geraint’s mare’s pace was steady and relentless. The old Warrior had to hold her back.

Patches of woodland grew. Cresting a hill, the three horsemen scanned the horizon. Geraint pointed. “The towers of Hesperon. And I see a road below us, which leads to the south. Let’s follow alongside it: we are likely to encounter others.”

They stopped at the base of the hill and checked their weapons and gear. Aled and Geraint each wore a leather-plated cuirass with metal on the ends of each plate or scale, and Aled also wore a metal hauberk under his, fashioned of a fine mesh of linked steel rings. A gorget, or collar, protected his throat. Col wore only a thick leather vest over a doeskin shirt. It afforded minimal protection but allowed maximum freedom of movement for his style of horseback fighting.

The trees and undergrowth about them thickened as they rode, listening closely for unaccustomed sounds, but they heard only birds and the wind rustling the green canopy of leaves above. Then the trees abruptly thinned. A large holding—almost a fortress—appeared before them.

“May the Dark Spirits devour my soul!” Geraint cursed pithily. “We’ve ridden straight into a dangerous situation. We make a great target—let’s return to the trees.”

They made to turn about, but a cry alerted them as armed men emerged from the woods behind.

“Throw down your weapons, and you will not be harmed!” a man in black armour called.

“Hah!” muttered Geraint. “That’s an old and overworked line. Of course, we’ll be harmed.”

Meanwhile, Aled had taken his strung bow in hand. Geraint followed suit. Col loosened his broadsword in its scabbard.

“There’s seven of them and three of us,” Col said. “They, too, have bows.”

Geraint pitched his strong voice so that the guardsmen could hear. “We will defend ourselves if you attack us. We wish to parley!”

“Then throw down your weapons!”

“Stand firm,” warned Geraint.

Suddenly, their opponents spurred their horses forward, and bowmen released their arrows. Geraint and his party dodged.

Col directed his horse with knees, seat and voice. ‘Now I’ll find out how responsive this stallion is in combat.’

Following Horsemaster Gabrien’s teaching, Col charged towards them, weaving the stallion but rapidly closing the gap. An arrow grazed his vest, but he did not flinch. He was now in the moment: adrenalin flowed as he became hyper-focused, and time seemed to slow. He swept away the sword of the first guardsman he encountered with a powerful stroke of his own, then wheeled the stallion to strike again from behind. Another opponent sought to close on his left side, but Col, who had a long dagger in his other hand, crossed under the man’s guard and ducked under the man’s sword sweep. He slashed his attacker’s wrist before following through with a crossover stroke with his right arm as the man dropped his sword. The young Wanderer’s broadsword bit into his opponent’s shoulder beside the neck, cutting deeply into his armour. Blood splashed and flowed.

Still, he would have been overwhelmed by converging assailants if not for Geraint, who appeared at his side. The blue roan mare Shade reared against one who attempted to slash Col’s stallion, lashing out with her hooves and striking the man’s thigh. He doubled over in pain, and Geraint cut him down.

Aled had been driving others back with his bow, but as he used his last arrow, he switched to his sword when two men leapt to attack him directly. The other two left off fighting Col and Geraint to aid them. But as Geraint wheeled Shade to follow, Aled was unhorsed. He rolled, but before he could rise to his feet, the men seized him, and one held a knife under his chin, just above the gorget.

“Stop, or we’ll kill him!” the knife wielder shouted.

Col and Geraint pulled their horses to a halt. They could not risk Aled’s life.

“Don’t give in!” Aled cried out, causing the knife’s point to cut him. Blood trickled over the chain mail.

“Too late, curse them!” exclaimed Geraint, seeing approaching reinforcements. “Col, lad, time to call off our fight. To persist now will mean Aled’s death.”

Col felt a wave of bitterness. He had killed men for nothing, it seemed. They had been so close to defeating their attackers, but he recognized the inevitability of Geraint’s logic. They would be captured, but Col felt sure that the men would want to question them before they were put to death.

*    *    *

Andri followed the messenger who had come to Eleni’s camp. He walked boldly, feeling a sense of inevitability. They passed the vardos, the wagons of other families, until they came to a large but plain looking one isolated from the others. There was no fire in the clearing, but two tethered Vanna horses grazed nearby.

The messenger, cloaked and hooded, beckoned Andri forward and pointed to the wagon door. Andri climbed the steps. There was a hollow feeling in his stomach, but he reminded himself that he was not unprotected.

Before he could knock on the door, it opened. A voice spoke, “Enter, Andri of Torrent Mountain.”

He went in. The wagon displayed rich carvings, and a small fire burned in the stove. The place was dark as the windows were shuttered, and a lamp glowed on the table. But Andri’s eyes turned to a seated figure.

“I won’t say welcome, but I agree it’s important that we talk,” Soli said. “Be seated.”

The only place to sit was beside Soli on the long padded seat. Andri sat but stayed as far away as possible. He fought the urge to accuse Soli of setting up an attack on him and arranging the theft of the horses. He focused on the main issue.

“You are so against Col and my handfasting. You want us to split up. Why?”

“You are unusually direct for a bard, but yes, it is unnatural for you two to bond. It violates ancient tradition, and you are a gadje, not one of us.”

“Silvanus and the Elders accept us. What is it to you that Col and I love each other and are pledged?”

Soli’s eyes glittered with emotion. “You cannot produce a family of your own. A Wanderer marriage is for creating children!”

But Andri replied, “I think there is something else, Soli. Between you and Col—“

“How would you know?”

“I think your enmity stems from personal pain, not from concern for your people,” Andri said, and a certainty entered his mind. “How long have you been in love with Col?”

Soli started to speak out angrily, but Andri interrupted him. “Don’t deny it. Your pain is natural, but your attempted destruction of our lives is not. But tell me how you really feel. As a Ruithin bard, I will hold your words as sacred if you speak the truth.”

Soli’s expression betrayed his struggle. Then he finally said, “Very well. I will tell you, but I hold you to your vows.”

The young bard gestured for the anguished Wanderer to continue.

Soli began. “I have seen him since he was a boy and have always desired him. He has an appetite for life that draws me in. His looks, his cleverness and his way with horses: all this appealed to me. One day, at a Gathering, I came across him in the forest, seated against a tree, masturbating. His karbaro was stiff as he rubbed it with his hand. I restrained myself from joining him with difficulty, worried that he would reject me. I should have approached him.”

Andri found himself almost sympathizing with the man. For himself, he loved and desired Col so much and constantly thanked the Mother-of-All that Col returned his feelings. But he did not trust Soli.

“I understand part of your desire. But if I renounced Col, do you think it would solve anything?”

“Yes! I imagine the two of you copulating, him plunging his kar, his cock in your ass. Grasping your hips, fucking you from behind. I see you sucking him, or worse, Col sucking you. And it burns . . .”

Suddenly, Soli moved, seizing Andri’s shoulders, drawing him close. Then the Wanderer kissed him roughly, plunging his tongue into the young bard’s mouth.

Despite his shock and surprise, Andri accepted the kiss. He was aware Soli was close to a breaking point, and he was in danger. He had an idea.

“Imagine that I am Col. Would you love him? Show me how. Do not think thoughts of harm against him, and he will love you back.”

Soli groaned and ran his hand down Andri’s body. He feverishly opened the young bard’s breeches, slipping his hand inside and squeezing Andri’s genitals.

Andri felt the threat lessen, and he allowed himself to respond. His penis twitched and began to stiffen under Soli’s stroking.

With his free hand, Soli opened his own clothing and pulled out his cock. It was thick and straight, above average in length and already hard. He took Andri’s unresisting hand and placed it over the pulsing member.

“Stroke me,” he groaned.

Andri did so as he wanted Soli totally immersed in his fantasy. They jerked each other off, then Andri paused to unfasten his shirt, exposing his chest, before taking Soli’s cock in hand again.

Soli leaned in and sucked Andri’s nipples: one, then the other, as they continued to masturbate each other. His excitement seemed to rise, and he closed his eyes as he stimulated the young bard.

Andri changed the narrative slightly. “Know, Soli, that this is the body that Col makes love to; the nipples he nurses on, the cock he jerks off and sucks. Now you are taking Col’s part, possessing me in his stead.”

“Yes,” groaned Soli. “I’m going to suck you as Col does.” So saying, he bent over and took Andri’s now fully-erect cock in his mouth. He worked it with a passion, sucking, licking, swirling his tongue around the head and probing the piss-slit that dripped with pre-cum. Soli’s hand roved over Andri’s chest, reaching higher. It touched Andri’s shoulder where the white mark presented itself. He gripped Andri’s shoulder and shuddered.

“Show me how you love Col. Imagine he is here, watching us, about to fuck you. Make him love you . . .” Andri whispered.

He pitched his voice into the realm of Shadow-song, that suggestive and hypnotic tone that only highly trained Ruithin bards could achieve. But, even as an apprentice, Andri had been taught this by his mentor, Brynnan, a Master Bard. The handprint on Andri’s shoulder glowed, and he felt its heat.

Soli touched it again and moaned, lost in his own world of ecstasy. Andri jerked the man’s cock harder and faster, feeling Soli was about to cum. He fully opened himself to Soli’s sucking and felt his response cresting.

“Cum in my hand, Soli, as I will cum in your mouth. Imagine Col is beside us: he is jerking himself off, too. Feel his cum splashing on your face—“

Soli cried out and released his load, creaming it over Andri’s hand. At the same time, Andri ejaculated and felt the Wanderer swallowing his semen. He shuddered at the force of it.

‘Gods! I hope I have done the right thing. Arawn, Lord of the Underworld, help me. Let your power wash over us. Change this man’s mind!’

It was some time before Soli stirred, sitting upright. He looked into Andri’s blue-grey eyes.

“Is that what you and Col share? I didn’t know. I felt your love for him and his for you. When I touched your body, I felt a wave of heat wash over me and understanding. You possess some strange magic, but it is not evil.”

“I wish you no harm, Soli. Maybe you will get a chance to talk to Col when he returns.”

But Soli looked stricken. “The Devleski Day forgive me. I am cursed. I plotted harm for you and him. We treated with some sinister men and betrayed your horses to them, knowing that Col and Geraint would follow. The men told us that it is Geraint they want but that Col could be used against him.”

Soli raised his eyes to Andri’s face, and they seemed to beg for forgiveness in their tortured depths.

“I am afraid my actions have put Col in great danger. Even now, it might be too late.”

*    *    *

To be continued . . .